For that long unanswered question
As to why I am not something, someone I cannot seem to become
I still have no answer
But I think I owe you something more important
An explanation is vile
So I choose an apology:
An apology to my mother
For never being able to be that daughter
Whom you could proudly call your own
Or called it so secretively that it passed my ears with such indifference
With such difficult reluctance
That I never could own it
It isn’t your fault
No fault of your upbringing either
You are always the most loving
And wished for perfection only because
You wanted me to be able to stand up in pride
And not cower before expectations
But I am tired now of cowering before that very perfection
Amma, maybe I was meant to be a little more inferior
But nonetheless just myself.
We have both loved
But in different languages
So different that it was left undeciphered
And because neither of us knew how to reciprocate
Something which we knew but couldn’t comprehend
Everything except I stayed in its place
And anyways amma
I never belonged anywhere.
My apology to my father
Is not for not being a fine daughter
If that was what you wanted
You wouldn’t have brought me up like your son
Letting me put my arms round your shoulder
Dripping ice-cream all over your white shirt
Talking of things and pursuits that were more significant
Than rants and lessons to a daughter
But I failed you too acha
For every like isn’t meant to be the same after all
And I was merely a daughter
Who must understand that there are things
That are not meant for normal girls
And remember that normalcy means accepting notions
That question my being a real person
And push me behind someone
Over a choice that wasn’t even mine.
And unlike all ‘good’ girls
I never learnt to keep my voice down
To accept my brother as my guard
When I wanted to walk alone over a thought
Or to dress up and smile and pretend
Like everything is perfectly fine
When I want to scream out
Because bottling up those unkempt emotions is what good girls do best.
My apologies also to my classmates,
To my society, my friends
Whom I have seldom found free to call mine
Because this is who I was
This scary, weird, different entity
That spoke of things you couldn’t understand
And it makes sense, absolute sense
For you to be tired of it all
But why doesn’t anyone realise
That I too can grow tired of things I cannot be
Yet am forced to own and pretend
Only to be hurt and return empty handed
To some place where I can tear apart that mask
And someone won’t scream at seeing my bare face!